Fire
by birdharp
Summary: "Some say the world will end in fire, / Some say in ice. / From what I've tasted of desire / I hold with those who favor fire." -Robert Frost
1. Chapter 1

_Some say the world will end in fire,  
Some say in ice.  
From what I've tasted of desire  
I hold with those who favor fire._

-Robert Frost

Smoke. Thick, ashy smoke. The smell of it fills my nostrils and airway before I open my eyes to see that it has seeped into Jane's bedroom as well. The bed shakes as Jane jumps up. I must have fallen asleep while I was meditating.

"C'mon, Maur," she says.

"Is it the oven?" I ask.

"No."

I slip my feet into Jane's slippers and jog behind her to the door. She picks up Jo Friday, who is whining against the wall. Jane holds the dog in her right arm and touches the doorknob with her left. It's not until she opens the door to a smoke-filled hallway that I realize her apartment complex is on fire. I know, somewhere in my brain, that smoke is caused by heated air sweeping up water vapor and tiny specks of fuel, or the burning matter. But a part of me, probably the part that was just asleep, doesn't register that this smoke could be caused by fire until she opens the door and I suddenly can't see five feet in front of my face.

"Here, take Jo. When you get outside, make sure someone's called 911." Jane shuffles a shocked-stiff Jo Friday into my arms, turns, and takes the stairs two at a time. Her long waves swing across her back until I can't see her any more. The smoke between us is thick.

"Jane?" My voice rings in the empty hallway. Somewhere below me, I hear stairs creaking and a herd of panicked footsteps descending. I glance down the stairwell, then back up.

"Maura, go!" It is muffled. I hear her fist on wood, pounding hard and fast-her voice, strong and low. It's her detective voice. "Anybody in there?!"

My throat burns. My eyes sting. "I'm not leaving you!"

A door opens upstairs, and a few seconds later a middle-aged woman appears from the smoke, her hand over her nose and mouth. She moves her feet quickly, glances at me as she steps by.

Then Jane is in front of me again, and for the first time since jumping out of bed, her eyes meet mine. Her fingers grip my biceps as she speaks. Her voice is a rasp, almost furious whisper. "Maura, I took an oath to protect lives. Please let me do this."

"So did I! I'm a doctor!" I feel like I'm whining. I will not leave without her.

"They will need doctors outside. There are only two more doors. I swear I'll be right behind you." Her voice is filled with the kind of frustrated desperation that I feel flooding its way into my chest.

I cough. My eyes are welled to the point of blurred vision. I speak to a smoky, blurry Jane mere inches from my face. "Fifty to eighty percent of fire-related deaths are due to the inhalation of superheated fire gases."

Her palms grasp my cheeks, pulling my head to her lips. The kiss on my forehead is brash, and her next words even faster. "I promise I will hurry." She releases me.

I watch her turn around as her long legs skip every other step again. She pulls her shirt up to her face, and then she's gone.

I find myself standing on the sidewalk outside a golden, flaming building. Everything is hot: my lungs, my skin, my eyes. Jo Friday is shaking in my arms. A couple of dozen people mull around me in various states of undress—some standing stock-still like me, some crying into their hands, some pacing frantically. I search the crowd for Jane, even though I know she couldn't have beaten me out of the building. Somewhere in my brain I register a deep voice saying, _I need to report a fire at 5th and Mission. _Good, I think. Call the fire department. Jane told me to make sure someone had called the fire department.

My eyes finally focus on the fourth-story windows of the building in front of me, where shadows and the color orange fill the dark frames.  
It feels like forever. It feels like I could have run to California and back in the time it takes for the fire department to arrive. Time stretches like molasses from a spoon as I pace the ironically damp patch of grass between the sidewalk and the street. A couple more people stumble out of the building, coughing. None of them have beautiful brown eyes or dimples from heaven. All of them look pained.

_I should have told her to get on her hands and knees to avoid the rising smoke._

Sirens pulse the night air. Everything is too bright and too slow. Big men in thick suits hop from red brick trucks all around me. They hold out their arms and tell me to cross the street. Why are they walking? They should be running. Why are they not running?

My feet are planted. The flames lick the night sky and I can feel their heat on my face as I search the fourth story window for any sign of human life. Oxygen, fuel, and heat. That's all you need to create a fire.

"WHY ARE YOU WALKING?!" I say to no one in particular. Tears are streaming down my face. I turn and kick the root of the tree, the same root of the tree that Jo Friday likes to relieve herself on every morning. I spin to find a fireman holding his arms out around me.

"Ma'am?" The man's voice is distant and gruff. "I need you to step back. We're securing the area."

"Where is she?" I ask the fourth story window.

"Is everyone you know out of the building?"

"She said she'd be right behind me." She'd kissed my forehead. She'd promised she would hurry.

"What's her name?"

"Jane." Her name is a prayer on my lips. If the flames could reach the heavens maybe my prayers could, too.

"She's still inside? Where did you last see her?"

I look at him. "The stairway between the third and fourth floors. She's a decorated homicide detective with the BPD. She wanted to make sure everyone was out."

The fireman nods and jogs to another, who is unraveling a hose. He says something and points, and then walks back to me.

"We're going to find her, ma'am. But for now, I need you to step back and let us work."

I let him guide me across the street, where I find a spot next to a teenage boy who is recording the fire on his cell phone. Next to him, a woman is speaking into her phone in German.

"Has anybody seen a cat?!" someone yells from behind me. "She's orange and white! Anyone?! HAS ANYBODY SEEN MY CAT!"

_I should have told her to tie a wet towel around her nose and mouth._

In a slow-motion, dramatic moment, the building heaves from left to right. I take slow steps forward as the crowd splits, half running up the street in one direction, half in the other. I am vaguely aware of squeezing Jo Friday tighter as two firefighters are slowly lifted into the air.

They break in a window of the second floor.

_I shouldn't have let her go._

No one has exited the building since the fire department arrived. The flames leap to the rooftop, stretching to the crescent, waning moon. A loud popping noise penetrates the air and a few feet away from me, a girl screams. My stomach twists in every direction. My head feels light. I think maybe I've stopped breathing.

They break in the window of the third floor.

_I should have told her I thought she was brave._

And then, I watch with flames reflected in my hazel eyes as the top floor collapses onto the third. The entire building heaves again. Ashes shoot into the air around me, smoke billowing out from the decrepitating structure.

"Jane!" I choke on tears and mucus and smoke and fear. It's not as loud as I want it to be. I want her to hear me. I want her to know I am waiting for her.

There is no more fourth window for them to break in.

"Jane!" I try it again. I can't see anything anymore, but I know people are looking at me. I know someone is telling me to move behind the yellow line. I know that she would have made it out if I would have fought for her to stay with me. Just stay with me. Why couldn't I have just asked her to stay with me?

My stomach twists hard, and I wretch over Jo Friday, onto the hot pavement, onto Jane's slippers. My head pounds. Tears squeeze between my eyelids and I am broken, sobbing on my knees.

"Oh, God…" I cry into the pavement. Gravel rubs my forehead. I beg for something to ground me.

But then male voices are yelling and I blink into the smoke to see someone climbing out of the third story window. Jane is being carried by a boy, an adolescent boy. He is holding her out the window, transferring her into the arms of the men in the lift.

Her body is still the entire slow ride to the ground. The boy collapses in the grass. A paramedic rushes to him. The firemen place Jane's body on the concrete and one of them checks her pulse. He tilts her head, clearing her airway. He administers CPR.

He checks her pulse again.

_I should have told her I loved her._

He administers CPR.

He checks her pulse again.

_I shouldn't have let her go._


	2. Chapter 2

A heavy blanket drapes across my shoulders.

"She's going to be alright, sweetie," a soft voice says in my ear. "Let's get you checked out, though."

My eyes follow Jane's gurney to where they are rolling it into the ambulance. Her eyes are open and searching. Her mouth and nose are covered with an oxygen mask. I can still feel my heart pounding in my chest.

"I have stress-induced nausea and my respiratory system may have minor irritation, but nothing long-term and nothing worth examining or, to use your words, checking out."

"You certainly know your stuff. What's your name?"

"I'm a doctor. Can I go with her?" They're closing the back doors of the ambulance.

"They're just taking her to Boston Med for a chest x-ray, some oxygen, and a bit of rest. After I get you checked out I'll have one of our men drive you right on over, okay?"

I nod as I watch the ambulance drive away, red lights flickering into the darkness. It's the second time tonight that I've let her go. But I'm too exhausted to argue. I'm too relieved to fight back.

A small crowd across the street hovers around a Red Cross set-up. A few people twist water bottles in their hands. The boy who had been recording the fire earlier is now talking to a woman with a clipboard.

"What's your name?"

"Maura."

"Okay, Maura. Open up your mouth for me, please. Thank you. And you're a doctor, Maura?"

She moves to my ears.

"I'm the Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts."

"Very cool!" the woman says, and for the first time, I look at her. She's middle-aged with short dyed-red hair and matching lipstick. I wonder if she stopped to do her lipstick before hopping in the ambulance. I wonder if that's what took them so long to get here.

She places her fingers on my wrist, checking my pulse. "And what is your relationship to the young lady?"

I look back at the building, now half the size it was when I'd entered its doors earlier in the evening, Jane trailing me with take-out and a six-pack of beer. Smoke and ash have increased because of the water from the hoses, but the flames have dissipated. I watch as a blackened slab of framing swings from the rooftop and drops into the mess.

"You didn't look like sisters to me. She's got that Italian blood in her, yeah?"

"We're…" Colleagues. Friends. Best friends. I spend the night, sometimes. I think she wants to kiss me, sometimes.

The paramedic chuckles, "One of those, is it?"

"I had an article published in the Journal of Combustible Science on high-oxygen and low-oxygen fires."

"Really, dear? And which was this?"

"Low-oxygen."

She hums, feigning interest, then touches my shoulder. "Well, you're good to go. Take it easy for a while. Jimmy here'll drive you to the hospital."

The sky is fading from gray to lavender by the time I enter the emergency room at Boston Med. I walk straight to the front desk, Jo Friday still in hand.

"I'm Dr. Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Can you please tell me which room Jane Rizzoli is in?"

The nurse at the front desk stares at me.

I shift feet. "Ma'am?"

"Sorry," she says. "Can you repeat that?" Her eyes glance down, and I am all too aware of how much of a wreck I look. I'm wearing one of Jane's old BPD t-shirts and pajama shorts, slippers two sizes too big for me with left-over vomit on them. My face is probably dirty from the ash and I'm holding a rescue dog.

"I'm sorry," I say. "The circumstances are unfortunate. I know I'm a mess. We just had a house fire and I'm looking for my…."

And again, the words stick to the roof of my mouth.

"…I'm looking for Jane Rizzoli, BPD."

When I find her, Jane is sitting up on an examination bed. I pause in the doorway. Her trademark white tank top has been turned to dark gray and the pajama pants she was wearing are nowhere to be seen. My eyes roam her body for burn marks, though the most serious injuries would be internal. She doesn't have a breathing tube, which is a good sign. Her right bicep is wrapped in gauze, and there's another patch of white near her shoulder.

The nurse says something to her about leaving AMA and I'm not surprised that Jane wants to leave before her doctor recommends it. I watch her flip her hair over her shoulder and sigh deeply. She coughs into her hand and then rubs her eyes. Her hand drops to her lap. Her legs swing a foot off the floor. She's anxious.

I try to figure out why this time feels different. Why this time, watching her perched on a hospital bed in a dirty white tank top with bandages covering various parts of her body is different from every other time I've walked into the exact same situation. I file these thoughts away. Right now, I just want to hug her.

I wait until the nurse moves to write something in her file at the foot of the bed before I step in.

"Maura," Jane says. Her voice is hoarse and thick with tears. She holds out her arms.

I set Jo Friday on the floor and place my arms around my best friend. We stand still for a moment, and then her knees widen and I squeeze my hips between them to get a better grip on her torso. I feel her pull my shirt into big fists against my back. My shorts hike up and the skin of our thighs stick with sweat. Her hair is thick with smoky smell but somewhere in there I sense the Jane that I know, the Jane that I love.

I've never been this close to her before. I never want to be any further.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers.

My eyes fill. I try to sniff the tears away, but she hears them.

"I mean it, Maur."

And a rush of fresh emotions surges from my stomach to my chest. Relief, mostly. Safety. Love. I let a few tears drip into her hair before I speak. "I'm sorry, too."

She pulls away, and I step back. I think of the smoke between us in the hallway.

"What are you sorry for?" She clears her throat.

"I should have told you the survival methods for avoiding smoke inhalation in case you got trapped in a room. I didn't even think of them until I was outside and, and…" My eyes fill again.

Jane holds out her hand and I give her mine. They rest atop her knee. "Maur, it's okay. Brandon knew all those things. The wet towel under the door frame, fill the bath tub, open the window, everything."

"Brandon?" I ask, blinking.

"The kid who apparently carried me out. The paramedics said he was okay." Her eyes narrow. "He's okay, right?"

My mind rewinds to a blond-haired boy collapsing into the grass before Jane was lowered from the lift. "I can't say conclusively, but I believe so," I say. "He didn't need to go to the hospital."

"Good," she says. Her eyes search me.

I look at Jo Friday, sitting patiently by my feet. Jane's voice is so, so hoarse. She could have blistering or oedema of the oropharynx, and likely soot deposits in the nose or mouth. Since she's leaving AMA, I'll have to monitor her for the next 24 to 36 hours for upper airway oedema.

"What happened to your pants?" I ask, and we both laugh like we know we shouldn't, but can't help it. I let my squinty smile search her dimples for a reason to think maybe she has found in this tragedy as much truth as I have.

She coughs a little, and then squeezes my hand in hers. "They, um... I had to take them off. They caught fire."

My jaw drops. "Jane, did you get burned? I looked, but..." I step in front of her. My fingers lightly roam her bare legs.

"Just a little on my ankle. But I'm fine, really. Brandon put it out."

I stoop to examine a red patch near her talocrural joint, and guide her toes to perch atop my bent knee. "It looks like a partial-thickness burn. Has it already been washed with soap and water?"

"Yep."

"Why isn't it dressed?"

Jane squirms under my touch, pulls her leg away. "Maur, I'm fine." Then she says to the nurse, "Told you I already had a doctor."

I blush at her use of the possessive pronoun. "I work on dead people."

The nurse nods, looks back to her clipboard.

I push back into a standing position and teeter to Jane's left. "And the other injuries?" I motion to her right shoulder and arm.

"Just scrapes from when the, uh… the ceiling fell through. Nothing major." Her legs begin to swing again. I watch her nostrils flare as she breathes in.

She opens her mouth to say something, but the nurse interrupts her. "A doctor should be by in a few minutes with the results of your chest x-ray, but given how little you're coughing, my guess would be that you're good to go."

"Thanks," Jane says. After the nurse leaves, she turns to me, "See? She guesses."

I try to smile. "She's not a doctor, but she really shouldn't guess, either way."

Jane tries to smile back. "Hey, could you call my mom? I want her to hear it from one of us before she sees it on the news. And it looks like it's almost morning."

"Yes," I say. "I'll ask the nurse's station to use the phone."

She squeezes my hand. "Thanks."

And for the third time that night, I let her go.


	3. Chapter 3

"Why didn't your smoke alarm go off?" Angela's voice is booming.

We'd arrived to my house just after sunrise. I had jogged up the walkway thinking I could get cash from a jar on a bookshelf in my bedroom to pay the taxi driver, until I was at the last step and realized I didn't have keys to my own home.

"We have to ask your mom."

"Do we _have _to?"

"How else are we going to get in?"

"I'm a cop, Maura. Give me a bobby pin or something. Did you deadbolt it? I know I tell you all the time to use the damn deadbolt, but it would be really nice if you didn't this time."

I tilt my head and squint at her. "You are not breaking and entering into my house, Jane." I lift my hand and knock on Angela's door.

Jane had groaned in the background, "I just want to put some _pants on_," despite the fact that the hospital had given her scrub bottoms. She'd complained about the itchiness the entire drive home.

And now we are sitting together on the couch being interrogated by Jane's mother.

"Well?" she asks again. "What happened to the smoke alarms that your father installed for you when you moved in?"

Jane looks at me, her lips rolling between her teeth.

I tilt my head in thought, surprised that I hadn't thought of the smoke alarm before this moment. And then my eyes squint as I remember…

Angela sees it, and gasps. She points her finger, "Jane Clementine Rizzoli."

Jane squirms next to me, runs her hand through her hair. "I may have…"

"Speak up, Janie."

"Maybe I took the battery out last week."

"You did what?!" Angela is standing now, pacing the length of my coffee table.

"I was trying to make that thing for family dinner night—remember the-?"

"THIS NEVER WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU HAD JUST LET ME TEACH YOU HOW TO COOK LIKE A NORMAL DAUGHTER."

"Angela," I say, ever the voice of reason when it comes to the Rizzoli family. "I really think it's unfair to blame Jane's entire complex burning down on both her personal lack of foresight regarding the smoke alarm and her inability to cook a simple dish without making something smoke in the oven. The fire started on the second floor, not in her apartment, and even if the alarm had been installed properly, it probably wouldn't have woken us up much sooner than we did."

"Thank you, Maura," Jane says, and then raises her eyebrows at Angela.

"Of course I'm not blaming the fire on you. I just—" Angela raises her fingertips to her mouth as her lips tremble.

"Ma," Jane says softly, though still obviously annoyed.

Angela holds out her hands and we stand. "I'm just so glad you girls are okay!"

And then we are squeezed on either side of Angela Rizzoli for minute upon minute upon clock-ticking minute. She mumbles something about Jane being too brave, something about us taking care of each other. And sometime after Angela stops crying, I feel Jane's thumb start moving where her hand rests on my lower back. It strokes up my hip to my rib cage, and back down.

"I have an idea," Angela says when she releases us, between wiping her cheeks and eyes.

"What," Jane grumbles.

"You two go shower, put on some fresh clothes, and I'll make breakfast."

"I don't have fresh clothes," Jane says.

We both realize in that moment that it is the beginning of a very long list of things that she no longer has.

"I'm sure Maura has something you can borrow. Right, Maura?"

"Definitely," I say.

And _I _hope this is the beginning of a very long list of necessary items I am able to provide for her.

Jane glances at the smile on my face. "Oh, goody," she says. "Can't wait."

I roll my eyes and use my hands on her arm and back to guide her toward my room.

Angela makes us breakfast, and then has to leave for work at the café. There are no open, current cases, so we both take the day off and sit around my apartment, making a list of essentials that Jane needs replaced. At the top of the list: her gun and badge. We call the banks and cancel our credit cards, and go to the DMV to request provisional driver's licenses.

"Damn," Jane had said as we waited in line at the DMV. "I really liked the picture from when I was 21. I looked all young and… hot."

"You look just as beautiful now, if not more so, than you did when you were 21."

She had rolled her eyes.

I'd just looked back.

When we get home from the DMV, Jane takes Jo Friday for her afternoon walk. I take the liberty of ordering a couple of pants suits online for her, and then I find a storage box and wrap all of my candles in old newspaper. I place the box behind the door where I hope Jane won't see it, and make a mental note to take it to Goodwill the next time I get a moment alone.

When Jane walks in, I am precariously balanced on a chair in the dining area.

"Maura-What are you doing?"

Jo Friday bounds around the base of the chair.

"I'm checking the batteries of all of the smoke detectors. This one is just a little out of my reach, though."

"Here, let me." She offers her hand and I step down, hovering for a quick moment too close to her body before stepping back.

"Thanks," I say to our feet.

She furrows her eyebrows at me but doesn't say anything, and steps up.

I make a mental note to be a little less obvious. I don't need to lie. I just need to be a little less transparent. I sit myself at the counter and pretend to scroll the internet while really watching Jane in the reflection my laptop's screen. She has her arms over her head, fingering the smoke detector. The v-neck I had lent her, one of my only t-shirts, is tugged up, revealing her smooth abdomen. I feel a rush in my cheeks and tug my eyes away.

When she finishes, she gets a glass of water and then sits next to me at the counter. "Maur?"

"Yes?" I half-close the laptop screen and spin a little on the stool to face her.

"Are you okay?"

I give her my best smile. "Of course! I bought you some outfits online. I think you'll like them. We still need to buy you new boots, though. And… everything else. We should really go downtown tonight, if you're up for it. You can't go back to work tomorrow if you don't have work clothes."

"You're deflecting." Her eyes sparkle like she's impressed, but the lines on her face read concern.

"I am not deflecting."

"You are, too, deflecting."

I take a sip from her glass of water and then spin back to my computer. I am not having this conversation.

"Fine," Jane says. She taps her fingers on the counter. "So… Should we start looking at hotels?"

"Do you want to go on vacation?" I ask.

"No… but I would really like a place to live."

And it hurts in my chest like my heart skips a beat. "Why can't you stay here?"

Her eyes jump back and forth between mine. "Can I?" she asks. And I think she's never sounded so vulnerable in her life.

"Of course you can. You stay here all the time. I'm not going to make you live in a hotel after you apartment burned down." I hope the desperation in my chest doesn't translate to my voice.

"What about your one guest rule?" She runs her left hand through her hair and then rests her elbows on the counter, her chin in her palms. "Really though, Maura, it could take weeks for the insurance checks to get in, and until they do, I can't really put down a deposit on a new place."

I pick at a dried glob of something on my countertop, probably left-over from Angela's cooking frenzy earlier that morning. "If you're not comfortable in my bed we can make other arrangements in the morning." I finally let my eyes meet hers, and I try to communicate with a safe mixture of all the feelings suddenly bubbling up to the bottom of my throat. "But for tonight, please... I want you to stay."


	4. Chapter 4

Smoke. Thick, ashy smoke. Smoke is all I can smell. It's all I can see. It's all I can breathe. It's all that there is. It's filling my bedroom from wall to wall, from door to window.

I turn my head. Jane is asleep next to me.

_Go back to sleep. This is psychological. There is no fire. There is no smoke. This is all in your head._

All of the oxygen has been sucked from the room. I am going to suffocate. I am going to die.

_Go back to sleep._

My heart is racing. My body glistens with sweat. Everything is white hot: my lungs, my skin, my eyes, my throat. I am going to die. Without a doubt. I am going to die.

I throw back the covers. Oxygen in through my nose, carbon dioxide out my mouth. Water on my face. Water in my mouth. Water down my throat. You can swallow. You can breathe.

There is so much smoke. I think I am hyperventilating.

"Jane."

My voice is meek and wobbly but I need to make sure she is okay and if she is okay I need her to help me. I cannot breathe. I need her to carry me out. I need her to give me fresh air.

"Jane."

I slide my back down the wall and the tile is cool on my back, on my feet, on my legs. Oxygen in. Carbon dioxide out.

"Maur?"

She is all sleepy shadows hovering in the door frame.

"I can't—" The tears finally come and my throat closes even more. Everything burns.

"What's wrong?" She sees it all at once and is immediately in front of me. One hand on my knee, one hand on my shoulder.

And then I am crying and talking at the same time. "I c—can't… can't b—breathe…smoke…"

"Okay, okay… shh…" She slips one leg behind my back and pulls my head to her shoulder. I bend like a curved spoon into her embrace, hugging myself, holding myself together like my insides are out and my outsides no longer exist. I let myself unravel, coughing up my own mucus and crying into her collarbone. My chest hurts and my head hurts and she is the one who should be hurting, but without her I hurt and without her, I'd be nothing.

She could glue me back together if she wanted to. If I let her. So I try to let her.

"You're okay," she whispers. "It's okay. Deep breaths."

Her hand is smoothing up my shoulder, under the sleeve of my shirt, and down my arm again. Her palm is calloused but Up feels like a blanket, and Down feels like home. Up. Down. Up. Down. I don't move. I squeeze myself together and I don't know how long it takes, but my airway clears. My chest is still heavy and my throat feels on fire but the end of the world doesn't feel so imminent. And I think maybe the smell of smoke has dissipated. Maybe there is oxygen around us. Maybe I can breathe again.

My thoughts shift to my face near her neck. As my breathing slows, I nuzzle my forehead deeper into the space where her neck meets her shoulder. I feel her arms tighten around me. I almost smile.

I think I can hear her heartbeat.

"Hey." Her hand pauses near my shoulder. "Why don't you tell me about some of those breathing exercises you're always talking about."

I laugh, and shift a little, wary of the fact that I no longer need to be held so tightly. But she doesn't let go, so I don't move away.

I tilt my head to look at how close we are to the toilet paper dispenser. She gets the clue, and reaches behind her for the roll. I sit up to dab at my eyes and blow my nose. Her arms hover over me, but she doesn't pull away, so I relax back into her shoulder. Her head turns toward me, and her cheek brushes my forehead, near my hairline. It brushes once, pulls away, and then returns. I can feel her exhale on my skin. My eyes flutter closed.

We sit like that for a while. I almost drift into sleep.

"Maur," she finally whispers. "My leg's all tingly."

"Sorry," I mutter, and immediately pull back. "You need to restore blood flow. Maybe you should stretch a little."

"No, it's okay." She stands, offers her hands and lifts me up, too. "I just. We would probably be more comfortable in bed, anyway."

"That is probably true."

I follow her in the darkness to the bed. The room is all shadows and bare strips of moonlight. She settles on her side and I settle on mine. I wonder when we decided whose side was which. I wonder if she ever thinks about it.

"I used to have panic attacks in med school," I say. I'm lying on my back, watching the red light on the smoke detector blink.

"Is that what that was?"

"Yes."

She turns on her side to face me. "Are you okay now?"

I let out a breathy laugh. "Define 'okay.'"

"Can you breathe?"

"Yes."

"Is the smoke gone?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you're going to die? I've heard that's what people think when they panic like that."

"It's true. And no, I don't think I'm going to die. Well, not right now, at least. All humans die eventually. It's biologically inevitable. And on a most basic level, we die a little bit each day." I don't know if she smiles, but I hope she does.

"Yeah, I think you're okay."

"Okay."

A moment passes. "Do you feel safe?" Her voice is deep. She seems serious.

I am prone to serious modes of interaction. I can be serious. "Yes."

The red light blinks. I know she is watching me.

"Y'know, for someone who honest to God can't tell a lie, you're kinda difficult to read sometimes."

"How do you mean?" My pulse quickens.

She backs out. "Oh, I don't know."

A few moments pass as her courage returns.

"Just, sometimes… I wish I knew what you were thinking. And sometimes, I really don't want to know, so don't think that means you can start unleashing all your… trivial knowledge on me any more than you already you."

"I hope you don't mean trivial; it implies uselessness, and I hardly think my—"

"Maur."

I breathe out. "Sorry."

"Is it a nervous thing?"

"What?"

"That thing that you do. With the facts and the figures. I get it when we're at work, but sometimes when it's just the two of us… it just seems like… I don't know. Like you don't know what else to say so you pull something fancy out of your hat and hope it either stuns or confuses me into silence."

I glance at her then roll my head back to the ceiling. "Sometimes, I suppose."

"So you are nervous right now."

I've picked my cuticle into submission. My heart rate has risen. This conversation is digging itself into a place I won't soon be able to dig us out of. "We should go to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a very long day."

"What? No. Maura, you just had a panic attack on the bathroom floor."

"A panic attack is a very common response to coping with traumatic situations and stressors such as natural disasters, and really there are far worse places I could have wound up than the bathroom floor."

"I don't think that what just happened was entirely about the fire."

I finally let myself look at her. The little light coming through the window reflects in her eyes, which are trained on me. Her hands are curled up under her cheek and chin. I hate to fight her, but right now feels like All or Nothing and I don't think I'm ready for All.

"You have no way of knowing that, Detective."

"I would say I have piles of primary evidence if you'd just help me piece it together."

I turn on my side, away from her. "I'm not a case that needs to be solved, Jane. I'm sorry I woke you up. I didn't mean to worry you. I'm going to sleep."

"Oh, c'mon, Maur. You know I didn't mean it like that."

"If you didn't mean it like that, you shouldn't have said it like that."

Her hand is gentle on my back, and rubs up and down. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I just want you to tell me if something is bothering you."

Sharing a bed with Jane used to be ecstasy, like Fourth of July fireworks in accidental skin-to-skin brushes under the covers, and hoarse whispers in the middle of the night. But something had clicked when I watched that fourth story floor crumble into the third, and that something is making this closeness feel like pure torture. Maybe I should find her a hotel, after all.

I blink into the darkness. "Goodnight, Jane."


	5. Chapter 5

I'm in the middle of the autopsy on our new victim when Jane pops her head in my door to tell me she's heading out.

"Call me if you find anything exciting, okay?"

"Okay," I say. I don't ask her where she is going or if she'll be back, and she doesn't offer up the information. When I am packing up to head home, my new phone bings a text from Jane.

_Feeling Chinese?_

I type back: _Sure. I'm just packing up. Want me to pick it up?_

_No, I'll get it. See you at home._

Dishware is clanking when I walk through the front door. I go straight to my bedroom to drop my purse and remove my heels. When I walk back, only a few lights are on in the kitchen, and candles glow on the countertop. Jane has her back to me, emptying cartons of noodles onto plates. She's still in her work clothes, though her jacket hangs across a chair and her shoes rest at the bottom of it. I imagine walking up behind her, placing my arms around her hips. I imagine pulling her hair aside to reveal her neck. I imagine her hips swaying as I place soft kisses below her ear.

I let out a shaky breath and approach the counter, eying the flickering candles.

"Hey," Jane says, spinning with chopsticks in one hand, a carton of take-out in the other. "I thought I heard you come in."

"What are these?" I slip onto a stool and pick up a candle to examine it.

"They're battery-operated candles. Aren't they cool?" She spins back to finish dumping the food onto the plates and then carries them over to where I sit.

I don't know what to say, so I just watch her walk around my kitchen, as comfortable as ever. She lifts a bottle of Pinot Noir in the air, and I nod. She hands it to me with the opener, and I pull the cork. When she returns with two glasses, she pours generously and then plops into the seat next to me.

I take a few large gulps before picking up my chopsticks.

"I saw that box of all your candles by the door," she says. "These don't smell good like your other ones, but at least they're pretty. And safe. You could use 'em when you meditate or take baths or whatever." She shovels a large bite into her mouth.

"Thank you, Jane. That's very thoughtful."

She shrugs.

Minutes pass in silence. I almost finish my glass of wine.

"Find anything on Jane Doe?"

"Nothing particularly helpful. DNA results on the semen should be waiting for us in the morning, as well as the fiber comparisons. You can read my full report then, too."

"Okay." And then, as though it is on topic, she adds, "I'm sorry that I upset you last night. I can sleep at my mom's tonight, if you want."

_It's not your fault._

_It's okay._

_I want you to go._

_I want you to stay._

I try to think of something to say, but nothing that I come up with is true. Lies pour into my brain like water from a faucet and I filter through them, weighing potential damage. I am pulled from my reverie when she speaks again.

"What am I missing?" She has stopped eating and is watching me push food around my plate.

"Sorry?" I play dumb.

She shakes her head, and her jaw flexes. And that's when I know I'm in trouble. How can this be going so poorly when I've barely said anything? The wine bottle is out of my reach. I stand and round the counter, pour myself another glass.

"I just wanna know what the hell is going on with you, Maura. I mean, I thought I was used to you driving me crazy, but not like this. Never like this."

Lie. Truth. Lie. Truth. Truth. Truth. Truth. "Telling you will make it worse."

Her mouth opens and closes as she tries to figure out what that could mean. She drops her chopsticks and finishes her glass, and then rubs her hands on her pants. "So you admit there's something wrong."

I give her a look. "Jane, please. Telling you would just… make everything worse. So much worse. You think this is bad?" I wave my hands between us. "Just wait. You make me—just… it's just not a good idea. Trust me. I'll get over it soon and everything will go back to normal."

"No. No _Jane, please._ MAURA, please." Jane's voice strains as she suppresses a cough. "We tell each other everything. Please. Whatever it is, whatever you need to get over, I can help you. I can make it better. Just let me help."

"No, you don't understand."

"So help me understand!" Her palms pound into the countertop. Our plates shake. She sucks in a deep breath, runs her hands through her hair and looks to the side, away from me. One hand covers her mouth as she coughs. Her nostrils flare and subside with each deep breath.

It hurts to look at her, and when I feel my eyes begin to well, I look away.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"It's okay." Everything around us is quiet. I watch the orange light from the candles flicker in my wine glass.

Jane pushes out her chair and rounds the counter with her empty glass. I pour her another and then step backwards, letting air flow between us again. We both sip our wine. She leans her hip into the counter, facing me. I let the bottom of my spine fall into the countertop so she is looking at my profile. And she is… looking at my profile. I can feel her gaze on the rouge of my cheeks and the way my throat has been threatening to close since I walked through the door, close like it did last night, close and not open again until her arms are around me and her palm is on my skin moving Up. Down. Up. Down.

"When did you learn to lie without telling me?" She says it lightly. I think it's meant as a joke.

"If I were to answer that question, how would you know if I was telling the truth?"

She circles her wine around her glass, brings it to her lips but doesn't take a sip—just exhales. Her eyes rest vacantly to my left. "I used to know. I used to be able to read you."

"I'm not lying about anything, Jane. Please just let it go." I try to say it gently.

She slides her empty glass onto the counter. "You know as well as I do that withholding information is as good as lying, and friends do not lie to each other."

"We're not investigating a homicide case, Detective. I don't have to tell you every thought that crosses my mind."

A look passes over her face, and I remember how I'd scolded her the night before for implying that I was a case to crack. She says simply, "Okay."

I'm afraid that I've won. I'm afraid she's retreating. She's going to pull away and I'm never going to tell her. I'm never going to know. I make myself glance up. I look at her until her eyes tug to mine. I try to say I'm sorry. I try to say I love you.

She crosses her arms across her chest. "So what exactly are we investigating?"

I sigh, my resolve thinning. I empty my glass and set it on the counter. I turn to face her, but when I make eye contact, I have to look away quickly. My hands cover my face as tears begin to fall. I cry silently. My head is rushing with the effects of the wine and the emotions and her face—oh God, her face.

She waits. When my shoulders stop shaking, I feel her step closer. Her hand is on my arm, her thumb wind-shield wiping back and forth, back and forth. "Maur, I'm sorry. But you're really starting to scare me."

I move away to blow my nose into a tissue, and then step up to her, facing her, and say, "I thought I lost you. I don't know what made the fire any different from all of the other times I've almost lost you. I've stopped trying to figure out what about this makes sense. But I really, really thought I had lost you."

Her eyes don't leave mine. "I swear I'm not going anywhere."

I shake my head. My throat burns. "You swore you'd be right behind me and you weren't."

She smirks. "That depends on your definition of 'right behind you.'"

I grin through my tears and gently shove her shoulder with the tips of my fingers. As I'm pulling away, her hand wraps around my wrist, and it freezes mid-air.

She holds it there, for a long moment, studying my face. My lips, slack. My heart, pounding. She works her thumb to my palm, her fingers curling around the back of my hand. She presses my knuckles to her lips and exhales a shaky breath before dropping our hands between us, hers still holding mine. I stare at where my knuckles had just graced her lips, hard.

And then her other hand is at my forehead, trailing the wave of my hair as she pushes it behind my ear. I let my eyes meet hers. Her knuckles hover near my jaw.

"Jane…" I manage to croak out. I can hear my pulse in my ears. My head is light and airy. My eyes bounce back and forth between hers and, in a moment of weakness, drop back to her lips.

She sees it, pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and bites it.

I feel heat everywhere.

And then her middle and ring fingers are trailing my jaw, down my neck, across my collarbone, and to my chest.

"What are you doing?" I manage. It comes out a hoarse whisper, sounding slightly strangled.

She steps closer and I can't move away. When she finally speaks, her voice is an octave lower than usual. "I'm making it worse so you don't have to."

Her fingertips push under the collar of my blouse and rest just above my rapidly beating heart.

I can feel her breath on my nose. I think I might collapse if we get any closer.

"Do you want me to stop?" she asks, but she's already moving in, and I'm already shaking my head slowly from side to side.

Her hand smooths back up and around, and I catch a glimpse of deepening dimples before she tangles her fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck and pulls my lips to hers.


	6. Chapter 6

Warmth is all I feel. From my cheeks to my toes, I am drenched in it. It starts off slowly. The hand on my neck guides my lips to hers and the kiss is open-mouthed, but surprisingly still. She pulls my bottom lip between hers and it smacks back into place as I tilt my chin down, forcing space between our mouths. I need a moment to breathe. To process. What is happening. Is this happening. Did I just kiss my best friend. Did I just love it as much as I thought I might.

I keep my eyes closed as the tip of her nose trails up the side of mine, until her lips find the valley between my eyes. I lean into the kiss, pressed near my forehead. Her hand still rests gently behind my neck, and mine has found a fist of fabric from her button-up to grip.

"How did you know?" I say it to the backs of my eyelids. I am two seconds from collapsing into her embrace, and I hope that she is two seconds from catching me.

As though she can hear my thoughts, her hands move to my waist and clamp behind my back. Our hips and stomachs press together. I finally open my eyes to catch her shake her hair out to the side, the way she does when she's impressed with herself.

"Two things," she says. "One? I'm a Detective."

I lift my arms to rest on her shoulders. "You can't credit everything good you do to the fact that you're a detective. I think it's the other way around, actually. You are a detective _because_ you have certain skill sets."

"You haven't heard Number Two yet." Her eyes bounce around my face.

I am using every ounce of control in my body not to kiss her again.

"Do you want to hear it?"

All I can do is nod.

She takes a deep breath. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

Her fingers flex into my lower back, holding me in place as she leans in. "First I need to…"

And the kiss, this time, is the opposite of the first. Crashing. Hectic. Like maybe if we don't do it all right now, we'll be tortured with four inches between our faces for the rest of our lives.

Her lips ground me. The mingling of our wine-soaked exhales sync as we give and take, fumbling for control.

I am tingling everywhere. I am floating. My hands move to her face in an attempt to taste more, and when my arms move so do hers. My blouse slips up my back. Cool palms press flat against the expanse.

She breaks the kiss suddenly, and I try in vain not to whimper.

"Oh, my god," she whispers in a higher pitch than usual.

"What?" I exhale, staring at her lips.

"I've never heard anything so hot in my entire life. I wanna carry you to bed right now—"

I am nodding vigorously.

"But I want to tell you first."

My thumb traces her swollen lower lip. "Tell me what?"

She tilts her head and pivots her torso back from her hips. "Did you forget already?"

I shrug. I haven't forgotten—but as much as I love listening to Jane talk, I am discovering that I love making out with her even more. "Can we do both?"

"Is this a special skirt?"

I look down, confused by the change of topic. "All my skirts are special."

"Okay, let's walk. We'll save carrying for another day." She physically spins me around and, with her hands on my back, guides me to the bedroom.

We're the only ones home, but she closes the door anyway; who knows when Angela will helicopter hover herself into my bedroom. I sit with my legs pulled onto the bed, knees pressed together to one side, ankles tucked near the edge of the bed. Jane sits cross-legged facing me. She puts her hands palms-up on the duvet between us. I watch her scars flex as she wiggles her fingers, and then I slip my hands into hers. We sit in silence for a minute, finally letting ourselves look at each other the way we've wanted to for… for a long time. When Jane finally speaks, her voice is low and controlled, like maybe this is something she has thought about before, and I let my eyes traverse her lips, her cheek bones, the waves in her hair, the slant of her shoulders, the concaves between her wrist flexors. I drink her in.

"You once asked me if I had ever gone to the Musée d'Orsay and sat and stared for hours. You said that you used to. You said you were in awe of what human beings could do. And I hadn't ever done that. I hadn't even been there before. I had no idea what you were talking about, and I'm pretty sure I changed the subject."

I smile. "I wouldn't be surprised."

She narrows her eyes at me.

"Go on," I laugh softly.

"Thank you. Anyway, I remembered it. It stuck with me." Her eyes drop to our hands, which are dancing with each other. "The point is that before you came around, I thought I was livin' the life, you know? I was stopping crime, catching bad guys. On that first day, when I finally got homicide and I walked down to that morgue where you were knuckle-deep in a corpse, I had no idea how much I had been missing. Before then, I had had no reason to go and sit and stare at anything for hours. But then there was you. And you were… you were…" Her eyes meet mine. She shrugs. "You. And you baffled me, and you frustrated me, and good lord you drove me crazy sometimes, but I never… I never wanted to stop learning. Learning you.

"And, Maur." She shifts closer, so her fingers can trace up my wrists.

My eyes well as warmth spreads up my arms and into my chest and threaten to spill out my tear ducts.

"No, please don't cry."

"These are happy tears, Jane." I lift one of her hands in mine and drag her knuckles across my cheek. I sniffle. "Please, go on."

She gives me her sad smile. "Okay. Well. What I'm trying to say is that I… I have spent every day of the past four years observing the most beautiful creation on this planet. And maybe you don't get hives anymore when you lie. Maybe I'm a bad influence on you in that way. Or maybe I've just got you a little bit figured out. But you are the first mystery that has me completely entangled, completely enthralled, completely… in love." She pauses, makes eye contact. "The first. Ever.

"So… how did I know?" She shrugs again. "I just know you, Maur. With every fiber of my being, I feel like I know you."

My cheeks are wet with tears. "How about with every electron?"

She laughs, "Yeah, that too."

And as she laughs, I reach my hands to either side of her face and pull until she has to lean so far that she gives in and straddles me. But instead of guiding my lips to hers, I nuzzle my nose to her ear and whisper, "I love you, too."

How ironic it is, I think, as I watch with adoring eyes, Jane tugging my skirt from my hips and delicately folding it onto the floor, that this journey should both begin and end with indomitable heat—flames leaping to the heavens, begging for more.


End file.
